Frozen: A Fateful Jog

How I stranded myself one winter’s day at Shawnee Mission Park...

It was an honest mistake, really. A tiny one, at that. But enough to knock me out for a week with bronchitis.

Backtrack to last Saturday morning, when I got up before the sun, suited up in my New Balance winter gear (very “tights” heavy) and headed to Shawnee Mission Park to run the trails. Though physically demanding, this is one of my favorite training activities. You have to be much more alert than when jogging on the street. Thousands of rocks dot the trails, each one itching to send you head over heels. Low branches and felled trees will only let you proceed using ninja trickery. I’ve seen white-tailed deer there multiple times, jump-darting through foresty obstacles with the grace of an ice princess, only stopping to stare at me with their dead-ass scary eyes.

There’s so much going on, it doesn’t even feel like real running. Which is kind of the point. Your average pace slows down as you navigate the woods, but you get a much better workout. A perfect weekend for me begins with an early 7 – 9 mile trail run, fresh coffee and long, hot shower. After that, I can justify any amount of beer and pizza Saturday and Sunday may throw at me.

What happened last Saturday was a debacle, to say the least. The scene played out like an Edgar Allen Poe short story, with myself as the unwitting protagonist.

It began with a hollow echo pulsating throughout the dark morning forest, as the car door to my 2006 Storm Gray Saturn Ion sealed inside of its malicious belly, the very key to its heart, and with a powerful “thump”, the locking mechanism cemented our dear character’s fate.

I locked my keys in my car.

Well, not all of them. In an ingenious and totally unnecessary effort to shed weight, I unclipped my house key from my car key (I only have the two), and without thinking threw the car key in the center console, and put the smaller, lighter house key in my jacket pocket.

Seven miles later, I realized my folly as I stood panting visible breath onto my car window, hand on the door handle, incredulous look at the house key, Holy Shit moment in full effect.

Luckily (the only time you’ll see this word) I was listening to a podcast on my phone, and thus had a means to seek assistance. Unluckily (you had to see it coming) my battery life was at 30% and draining. I took off my glove to call my wife to have her text me our car club information, and quickly realized how cold it was, now that I was standing still. Running in the mid-twenties is fine if you’re bundled up and don’t stop for yoga breaks. But the moment you quit running, and your blood flow normalizes, that layer of sweat inside your gear begins to act like a refrigeration unit. Which sucks when you weigh less than 150 pounds.

Not wanting to waste time, I called Melody’s store directly and she answered in a surprisingly short amount of time. I explained my predicament and without judgment she hung up so she could text me the information.

My first call to the help line was disconnected immediately after the lady asked me for my phone number in case we were disconnected. She never called back. Battery power down to 27 percent.

I called back and was transferred to another individual after failing both voice and dialing prompts. I noticed my fingers trembling as I went to punch in our account number, after the robot lady was unable to understand my voice command. After I gave the man my phone number, I asked if it was company policy to call someone back, of if they just captured our numbers for “for protocol” (I was very proud of this word choice). Though his response was apologetic for his co-worker, his tone gave me the impression that it’d be best if we weren’t disconnected.

I explained my predicament – now twenty or so minutes in – and answered all of his questions about where I was, car make and model, where exactly the keys were and what city I was in. Hey wait, didn’t I just answer that? Still, he transferred me to a pleasant-sounding gentleman who would assist me. If he didn’t live in St. Louis.

This guy then sent me on a whirl-wind tour of operators and lady-robots, none of which seemed to be able to help me. I kept my left glove on and held the phone with it, while my right hand, fully exposed, now beet-red, began tingling somewhat aggressively. For some reason, I began thinking of the winter climates that Bear Grills traveled to for his shows, and vowed to use some of his tactics after I knew that help was on the way.

Finally I had to hang up and call back for a third time, now more than half an hour since ending my run. I could feel the cold sweat on my back and head, compressing against my body. I took my beanie off for a moment, but the cold air, fresh against my noggin, was like sticking my head in the freezer.

I connected with another lady, who was professional, quick and thorough. So much so, that she told me that my account had expired months ago. Why this didn’t elicit a red flag from the previous agents is a mystery.

Once again I dialed Melody and kindly asked her what the eff. She scrambled to find the new number to text me. I couldn’t be too mad at her though, because while searching for it, she was interrupted in the break room and had to tell an employee, “I can’t help you right now because my husband locked himself out of his car and is going to freeze to death”.

Speed dial the same number, enter the new code. My right hand, now basically numb, hurt less than before, but let me know that the thawing out process would be brutal. When confirming my location, I pronounced “Shawnee” as Sylvester Stallone would, the result of a semi-frozen jaw.   

This entire time, I was pacing around the empty parking lot, as all of the shelters were closed for the winter. Even the bathrooms (both men’s and women’s - yes, I checked) were chained shut, and since it’s, you know, a park, there weren’t any places to bunker down. Well there was one…

Help was now on the way! Which was good, seeing as my phone’s battery level was down to twelve percent. Apparently I wasn’t the only one losing steam. I was supposed to receive a text stating how long it would be before help came, but obviously that didn’t occur.

So with no known timeline, I bunkered down it the only place I could: an oversized portable toilet. Now this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill blue crapper that you’d find at a construction site or kid’s soccer field. This bad boy was a deluxe version – coral blue plastic and a doublewide door, with two, count them two, racks of toilet paper. But no hand sanitizer. And yes, it smelled like shit.

This was the only place to hide from the wind, which thanks to great ventilation, wafted the toilet smell into a fury. But it was better than bunkering down in the trees…which I had already tried.

I called Melody to thank her and let her know that things were looking positive – the last call before I’d finally be able to put my glove back on my frozen cherry popsicle of a hand. After relaying the news, she immediately goes into a monologue about downloading the auto app, and blah blah blah (remember, she was in work mode) – I cut her off by meagerly offering up, “I don’t really need a lecture at this particular moment, as I wait for my hand to thaw out while pacing around in a port-a-john”. “Right”, she told me, “Sorry…I love you”.

And that was that. With no idea for an ETA, I had to jump periodically to see through the top vents – my car was about 100 yards uphill. My phone rang again, now more than an hour after my run, which considering what I had to go through to get help, was actually impressively quick.

Dude needed directions. Now you’re kidding me, right? Says he’s not from this side of town. Of course he’s not. My answer to everything was, “In Shawnee Mission Park, by the tennis courts”. I must have said it seven times. If he couldn’t find it with those instructions, I had no plan B – that was the best I could do. Didn’t Elvis die on the toilet?

Miraculously he found me. Sensing my soul’s imminent departure from this world, he offered me a seat in his truck while he worked. I declined because I thought that if my body felt any form of heat, my brain wouldn’t be able to convince it to go back into the wild, to my car - and I didn’t really want to spend the day with this guy.

I turned the car on while he collected my VIN number. I shook his hand and when I thanked him, nothing better than “TUUUYYYSSSS” came out. I shrugged, patted him on the shoulder and turned the heat to eleven.

I had to take the gloves and hat off, but left everything else on. My lower body was actually in decent shape as my running tights did well to wick away moisture. My hands, roaring back to life in front of the heater, were pink and fleshy and ill tempered. My head was already starting to throb.

But you know what they say, a hot shower cures all!

No they don’t, because that’s not at all true. This past week my body has been through a series of symptoms ranging from chills to high fevers, headaches to stomachaches, dizziness to coughing, hacking to sneezing, body pain and the worst, inability to move off of the couch. Just one week, and a Z-pack and an inhaler later, I’m finally excited at the prospect of venturing outside for more than ten minutes.

What have I learned from this debacle? Not much. Barring wearing a spare car key on a chain around my neck Lord of the Rings style, I don’t see much reason for optimism that I won’t repeat this boneheaded move. This is at least the fourth time this year that I’ve locked myself out of my car or house, or straight up lost my keys. I’m like a seven year old.

And don’t forget, I still have a 10-mile trail run to train for in February. With this race, called Psycho Wyco, the challenge is making it to the finish line. With my luck, I’ll be fortunate to enter the starting gate. So cross your fingers and stay by your phone. And if you haven’t heard from me in a while, you might want to swing by. I’ll make you a key.

Nica Stories: Escape to Monte Cristo

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

This fourth post, about a hidden gem buried down stream in the Rio San Juan, involves fist-sized spiders and flying monkeys. Still interested? Previously, I've written about volcanos, lagoons, and two-person dance parties. As I dig through my trip photos, site by site, I wonder just how many more of these I can come up with. I reached the conclusion that I could feasibly be writing these until our bronze (8th year) anniversary. So time to stop dilly-dallying, and get to writing...

Tales from Monte Cristo

Me: "Is it poisonous?"

Melody: "Of course it is! You don't get to be that big without telling other animals not to eat you!"

Me: "Crap!"

--Referring to the brightly-colored, massive spider staring through our souls from the bathroom window--

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* I'll start this post with a disclaimer that no part of the history of Monte Cristo that I'm about to detail is likely true. I've learned some small facts over my many visits there, and filled in the gaps with wildly imaginative theories. My actions, and those of my friends, family and wife however, are entirely valid. Enjoy!

My tiny Peace Corps town, San Carlos, is roughly 8 hours by bus from Nicaragua's capital, Managua. Or so it used to be; now it's only 4 because they've paved the highway - but whatever, for purposes of this story, I'm saying 8 hours. 8 hours in a 1970's era school bus on unpaved roads, dust billowing through the windows, bumping up and down uncontrollably, teeth chattering, bladder squashing, hefty Nica grandma forearm-bulge invading your personal space. If you know me, I've bored you with this story before. So for now, this is what it takes to get to San Carlos from Managua.

Somehow you have arrived in Managua, then taken the bus (see above) to San Carlos...now what? Future posts will detail the trouble you can get into in San Carlos. This one is about what happens when you go further down the river, deeper into the jungle, closer to Costa Rica, separating yourself from civilization even more by hopping into a long and narrow boat (panga in the local parlance) made out of what appears to be rental property quality bathtub plastic, and tell the captain - a 22-year old kid with baggy jeans, a clean, stiffly-starched short-sleeve polo shirt, rock-hard gelled hair slicked back, and just the faintest intention of a mustache - "Take me to Monte Cristo!"

Melody on plastic duty to shield us from the raging rains of the Rio San Juan (below)

Choppy waters and distant rainfall on the way to Monte Cristo

So what the heck is this place with the familiar name? 

Two hours from San Carlos by panga (that new word you learned in the previous paragraph) lies Monte Cristo, a self-sustaining eco-lodge that resides on the banks of the Rio San Juan. The owner, Augustin Llanes, lives there with a skeleton crew that specializes in great hospitality in the most unlikely of regions in the world.

Augustin puts you up in spacious yet quaint bungalows with, among less important accommodations, internal plumbing and running water, something of an anomaly in this region. The rooms are comfortable enough to get a good night's rest, yet rustic to the extent that a small part of you feels like you're roughing it.

Front view of our cabin

Front view of my foot, and the view from the back of our romantic bungalow

The reasons to go there are many, and the best see the visitor taking advantage of unique opportunities provided by the land and the creatures that inhabit it. Its primary source of eco-tourism comes from the massive fishing tournaments that are part of the Rio San Juan's lore, where fishermen (and women) come from all over the globe (seriously) to pull tarpons the size of high-schoolers out of the majestic river (seriously).

You can hike or ride horses into the massive farm/jungle, where you're just as likely to stop and pick a pear as you are to interrupt a family of howler monkeys engaging in raucous banter. Canoeing, kayaking and fishing tours are all options; depending on your comfort level, you can go it unsupervised, or request a guided tour.

It's a free-for-all in terms of how you plan your stay. Once you arrive at Monte Cristo's dock and walk up the thatched roof-covered outside stairs, you chat with Augustin, probably over beers, and tell him what you're interested in - then you go from there. For the flexible travel who prefers to arrive at a location, then decide how to spend the time, this place is an absolute marvel.

So you know which dock to depart

The entry stairs have a very eco look and feel

This is a blessing, because you never know when you'll want to get dirty traipsing through a rainforest or down a river in a kayak, or when all that you really want is to enjoy coffee and mangos while reading in a hammock for three hours. At Monte Cristo, it doesn't really matter.

And now for the probably-not-so-true back story...

It's my completely uninformed opinion that this plot of land was confiscated by Daniel Ortega and the Sandinista government back in the 1980's, and given to a local party supporter - let's call him Geribaldo Llanes - to build up as a strategic military post.

The Rio San Juan has been historically mentioned as a possible location for a large-scale canal (think Panama Canal), the main point of relevance for this out-of-the-way river that connects the Pacific and Atlantic coasts of Nicaragua. This chatter has even cropped up recently, as "tests" are being currently run by the new Sandinista Government (still run by Ortega, of course).

The Rio San Juan also connects to the Rio Frio, which takes you on a brief, one-hour panga ride into neighboring Costa Rica. The Ticos and Nicas have a tenuous friendship much like that of you and your brother - equal parts love, hatred, bullying, annoying, instigating, back-slapping, towel-spinking and rum sharing. That is to say, there are good times, and there are fractured times, just like with brothers.

So Ortega gave Geribaldo (again, not a real person; maybe not even a real name) this land near what he didn't realize was the end of the Nicaraguan civil war, and when he was beaten in a free election by Violetta Chamorro, Monte Cristo (which had not yet been anointed so) was just another piece of Sandinista land on a list of many that had to be "dealt with".

Though strategic to the region, the Rio San Juan feels like another country from Managua, so likely Geribaldo wasn't hassled to return the land, and it wasn't deemed worth the hassle to appropriate to the incoming government, which had a rather long list of action-items on its plate, the first of which was to stop its citizens from trying to kill each other.

Geribaldo, not one to miss an opportunity, begun turning it into an eco-lodge as a way to draw tourists further down the river. Finding false commonalities with Alexandre Dumas's character Edmond Dantes, he named the place Monte Cristo, and went to work building the infrastructure that, years later, Agustin would use to host, among other tourists, myself, fellow PC volunteers, Melody, my brothers and mother.

Again...none of this is likely true...

What are my favorite memories from Monte Cristo?

I've visited this lush vacation spot roughly half a dozen times, and have always been rewarded with a unique and intriguing experience. The thread that ties these moments together lies not entirely in the activity, but the friends and family with whom I'm sharing the moment. If I want to see flying monkeys, all I have to do is pop in a copy of The Wizard of Oz. But watching them in real life, sitting in a wooden rocking chair next to my wife...that's something special (see below). So in no particular order:

• Attack of the Killer West African Bees - Or that's what we told ourselves after Matt was attached on horseback by a family of bees. They somehow found a path inside his shirt, stinging him no less than eighteen times. We retreated back to our cabin as Matt's chorus of "Ow's!", "What the F's!" and "Are you kidding me's?" both rose in urgency and made us chuckle. Augustin brought rum for us to wipe on the stings - he had no less than 18 of them - which relieved Matt of a small amount of pain. He also brought out a few cold Tona's, so we could kick back and laugh over the experience. All of us except for Matt, that is. 
• Monster Spider - Melody and I were enjoying a nice night looking out into the dark nothingness that is the Rio San Juan at nighttime. We had rum, cigars, music and what I can only imagine was witty banter, but were sorely lacking munchies. A quick jaunt back to the cabin for some of the street goods we purchased earlier in the day seemed like it was harmless...that is until Melody yelled for me to come into the bathroom. Perched on one of the window slats above the bathroom sink was a spider as colorful as a losing paintball contestant, and as big as a grapefruit. Thoroughly creeped out, I fulfilled my husbandly duties by attempting - though failing - to swat it away with a dusty magazine. We settled on closing the slats, hoping to imprison the beast behind bars for the remainder of our stay. We never solved the mystery of how it breached our room's interior, and more importantly, I had to sleep on the side of the bed that was below the window for the rest of our stay. 
• As a side note on this topic, lizards also joined us in our room, to less frightening consequences. These are the small ones whose tails fall off when you grab them. In fact, we had one that spent almost the entire weekend inside our shower. Now seeing a lizard in your shower in and of itself isn't considerably scary, however once your brain processes the fact that a massive spider has also appeared inside that very same cabin, it makes a cognitive leap that has frightening psychological consequences.
• Canoeing with the Dudes - Four years ago I guided some pals on a two week excursion through Costa Rica and Nicaragua, staying one night at Monte Cristo. Nick, Zach, Chad and I loaded our gear into two wooden canoes and paddled two hours east towards the town of El Castillo. On that trip, we learned a lot about each other goofed around a lot. While none of us capsized, we shared some great stories, cracked jokes and made fun of each other, all while marveling at the amazingly green landscape around us. The herds of cows, the cranes perched on one leg for no particular reason, the sunbathing turtles and jumping tarpons. El Castillo was quite a sight when it entered our view, but it is the shared experiences of the journey to get there that stand out in my mind. 
• Flying Monkeys - With a nasty storm approaching, and Melody and I in for the evening, we saw a family of monkeys jump from one set of trees to another, fifteen or so yards away. We sat on the back patio, astonished to see something straight out of a Nat Geo special. The parent figure guided the little one first, and it abided by hurling its body in the air, gut forward, hands, feet and head arched back, just like in the cartoons. It connected with a group of leafy branches twenty yards lower than its leaping off point. Surprised to see the first family, we were mind-blown to see an additional ten monkeys follow suit, all flying in front of us, with the river blanketing the background. Not sure where they headed, but we heard them roaring all night long, sounding like a cross between Darth Vader and the raptors from Jurassic Park. 
• Food - The food is some of the best I have had in the country that isn't purchased from an old lady in the street. Agustin uses a variety of fresh fruits (hello starfruit!) and vegetables that are picked straight from gardens on the resort. The meats he uses come from animals that we either saw earlier in the day (oink oink, moo moo) or canoed by (fish sound here). Fruit smoothies - or favorite is the luminescent purple pitaya - are served with most meals. There's usually a unique garlic sauce or chilero, and with a rare focus on plate presentation, the result is a meal straight out of a travel brochure...but better. 

These are a few of my favorites memories from Monte Cristo, and I hope to add to this list with each visit. I don't imagine I'll ever stop visiting my host family, and let's be honest, if I've made it that far, what's another few hours downstream. Enjoy the rest of the pictures from this amazing place. Next up...El Castillo.

Quite possibly the single most romantic thing I've ever done!

Melody relaxing on our spot. Here we read, drank coffee and rum, listened to music, talked for hours and hid from our pet spider

Spared no expense

Melody enjoying a rum pitaya drink straight from a pitaya (no idea if there is an english translation). 

Our favorite fruit smoothies

Probably the second most romantic thing I've ever done

Even the banos are quaint and cutesy

Visual flora

Obviously this means that star fruit means star fruit in spanish

Ironic to see street signs, since there's never been a car this far down river

Back in my PC days, I canoed for three straight days - 160KM - to the atlantic coast, San Juan del Norte

Melody at the resort entrance. I get a uniquely liberating feeling each time I pass between those hung tire-planters

Some seriously angry cows on the river

Such attention to detail

A great evening snack, rum drinks served in fruit with fruit on the side

And for a bit of the midwest, there's always the Bar Mark Twain!

Nica Stories: Party For Two in Granada

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

Making friends with the bar owner who, according to her right eye, might be a Terminator

Story number three in the honeymoon anthology. For part one, where we defied fire and brimstone to the top of an active volcano, click on this link: Masaya Volcano Adventure. Part two saw Melody eat nub chicken and spend an enjoyable day swimming in a lagoon: Lagoon

Surprise trip to Granada, and disco-party for two

"We dare you to dare us to throw a disco party for two"

--Nica Proverb--

Sometimes the best evenings catch you by surprise.

Having thoroughly planned our two-week trip throughout Nicaragua, allowing for a varied range of events in each city, the one thing I did not plan for, was a day-long travel delay. So when I was unable to book an online flight from Managua to San Carlos due to the instability of La Costena's (Inter-nica airline) website, I knew we were in trouble. I suppose that I should have expected it, because even though the guide book instructed us to book online, the website's interface was only slightly more modern that Doogie Howser's computer journal. 

Using the antiquated cell phone our tenant provided us with, I was somehow able to book a flight in spite of spotty reception and difficulties understanding the lady over the phone. (Another example of how much of a second language can be lost without the benefit of non-verbal communication). Our flight, however, was a day later than initially planned. 

I let Melody weigh in on whether or not we should stay in Masaya or travel to another city for this "free day", and she chose the tourist-friendly former capital of Nicaragua, Granada. 

Granada is as close to Europe as Nicaragua offers, in my opinion. The quaint cobblestone streets in the center of town are lined by colorful two-story buildings with rows of white pillars, churches and cathedrals, and rows of statues, meticulously manicured plants and flowers, and oversized Nicaraguan flags. Horse-drawn carts carrying tourists mingle just as seamlessly with pedestrians as they do with the many cabs and pick-up trucks that populate the roads. 

Bold clouds hover over Granada

Granada is a port city on the northeastern edge of Lake Nicaragua, the massive blue legion covering most of the eastern part of the country, if looking at a map. It's visited by tourists from all over the world; and by "tourists" of course, what I really mean to say is dirty granola hippies. 

OK, by my own admission, that's a slight exaggeration, however the dirtier and hippier they are, the more they stand out in my mind. Like the blonde dreadlocked American woman who passed us shouting - SHOUTING! - obscenities to no one in particular. Because I know the basics of how not to get mugged, I avoided eye contact and only turned around when I was a good 200 yards past her, and her general craziness. I don't remember exactly what she said, and the Nica's to whom she was shouting towards likely understood less. Like a confusing game of Scrabble, I simply remember the phrases: "Fight for freedom", "In a prisoner of war camp" and, my favorite, though the one I understood the least, "Courtney Love". 

Attempting to delete the stains of hippie juice from our collective mind's eye, we spent a nice day strolling through town with no agenda. We shared Coke's with some kids in one of the town's many parks. Melody found a great purse store, where we shopped for purses made of genuine Nica leather, while we watched locals work in the back, cutting, dying and sewing new ones. We each lost no less than a quart of sweat due to the sauna-like sales floor. 

Melody shopping for purses made out of, I believe, soy by-products

I inquired about cigars at a small store, and was surprised to receive an impromptu tour of the Mombacho Cigar Shop. We were taken through the cigar preparation process, watched workers roll, trim and mold the leaves into cigars, then invited inside the walk-in humidor before buying some fresh Nica stogies. One of the many unexpected gems of the trip. 

Rolling in the leaves

Invading their workspace

Pretending to know about cigars

Seeing our first opportunity to get dolled up (that phrase is admittedly more for Melody than I), we decided to visit the hotel room for a quick rest, then head out for the evening. Once there, I cranked up the AC - our first exposure to artificially-chilled air in five days - and we both fell into an air conditioned coma, unable to speak or move as the cool air penetrated the thick layer of sweat, dirt and grime that had become our unwanted exoskeletons. It wasn't until dehydration threatened - that damn water bottle on the other side of the room - that either of us moved. 

Showered and with the prospect of feeling fresh for at least seventeen minutes, we headed to watch the sun set on the lake before dinner. A cool lakeside breeze fought off the humidity while next to the dock's edge, but when the orange and blue sky turned dark, and we headed towards a row of cantinas for food, the humidity attacked once again, seemingly from the inside out. 

Melody attracting way too much attention from Nica men with her beauty

We set out down another touristy district, where earlier in the day they were charging a few cordobas (Nica currency, under a buck) to go through the gates. When we arrived around 5:45 - keep in mind the sun set around 5:30 every day - the guard was nowhere to be seen, so we passed through with trepidation. With such beautiful wildlife and lake-side scenery around us, it was disturbingly quiet as we crossed a wooden bridge - it felt like sneaking into an empty Old West actor's town when everyone was on break. 

Total darkness set in quickly, as usual, and the empty restaurants appeared to be gearing up for what we could only imagine was a "club scene" to take place in a few hours. All we wanted were some food and rum, though, so we set out into the unknown keeping an open mind. The restaurants we passed differed from each other only slightly, and all had a few key components: Tall thatched banana-leaf roofs; large wide-open seating areas full of wooden rocking chairs wooden love-seat swings; short stumpy tables; unique lighting of some variety; gigantic speakers out in the open; and a small office/bar/kitchen/DJ booth that served as a home base for the proprietors.

Since everything looked the same, and we were feeling fresh from the showers and a sort-of-cool yet romantic sunset, we decided to walk until one of the places called to us. And right before we hit the end of the dark paved road, that's exactly what happened. 

We passed maybe nine bars without seeing any customers, just the owners and workers setting up for the evening shifts. That is, unless you count the bearded gentleman taking a nap in the dirt next to the entrance of one of the first cantinas we passed. Counting him, that makes one customer in nine bars. The office lights were on, so that in the darkness all we could see on either side was the activity in and around the kitchens. We scoped out the possibility of food, but also discussed each place's approachability. This was important because these places likely weren't expecting anyone for the pre-dance crowd, and we didn't want to seem like non-understanding tourists violating social norms. Which is precisely what we were. 

But then, like a spotlight illuminating a lion tamer, we received our bat signal. A bar with no discernible signage spoke directly to us with a visual display that rivaled Stone Mountain's Fourth of July celebration (Google that if you don't know what it is). We stood mouthes agape, scared yet excited, waiting for our bodies to understand the message that the neurons behind our eyes had already sent up to our brains: we had to go inside!

The place was huge but empty. We saw a lady by the bar who was probably the owner, and she was talking to a younger man, who played the role of server, chef, bartender and, his true passion, DJ. There were yellow lights on all four corners of the covered cantina to help us locate a seat without knocking our shins into a wooden rocking chair. 

Beginning in the center of what we later learned would be the dance floor, a series of hundreds of red and green dots moved in unison, forming patterns then breaking away quickly and creating circles, squares, and even lightning bolts. This laser-light show formed from inside the cantina and bled onto the streets, attracting customers - namely us - inside like insects to a zapper. 

I asked the owner if they served food, and when she replied "no", we sat down anyway, spellbound and sensory overloaded. Even before the server took our order, she was out with a bottle of heavy duty Off lotion, to ward off the masses of mosquitos that were already plotting to steal my blood. With service like that, we owed it to her to order a bottle of rum - it was the very least we could do to show our appreciation. 

Party for two...

I ordered the works. A small bottle of the good stuff - 7 year Grand Reserve Flor de Cana, complete with a bucket of ice, soda water (for me), Pepsi (for Melody), limes and salt. This is how I would spend evenings with visiting Peace Corps volunteers in San Carlos, laughing and joking about their lives in the further remote regions of the Rio San Juan. 

Our bottle yielded 4 - 5 drinks each, which on and empty stomach, could have spelled disaster. But luckily for us, and totally out of the blue, we were treated to a one-man music concert, which blared from the six-foot high speaker located not ten feet from our table.

Like all memorable, unexpected evenings, we didn't fully understand what was happening until we were in the thick of it. Toasting drinks and lighting just-purchased cigars, a familiar sound came through the speakers, catching me off guard yet stimulating the part of my brain that is capable of forcing my mouth to say the phrase, "Hell's yeah".

The only time I wasn't singing was when I had a cigar in my mouth

It was a slow Mexican guitar riff, and for some reason it made me picture Antonio Banderas staring passionately into an ocean, missing the top three buttons of his white puffy shirt. But when the singing began, the mental image in my mind's eye changed for the worse. I had the following loud exchange with the music:

To really love a woman

Me: No!

To understand her

Me: Oh No!

You got to know her deep inside

Me: This can't beeeeeee!!!

Bryan Adams, and his catchy crap ballad "Have You Really Ever Loved a Woman?", was being played at a volume akin to KU's pre-game basketball introductions. Which is to say too damn loud. A look towards the kitchen saw the DJ give us a thumb's up while bobbing his head, pleased that he finally had gringos who would obviously appreciate his musical tastes. This was when we realized we had no idea what we were in for. 

As Bryan Adam's crowing mercilessly faded out, another recognizable tune blended in. A mutual look of recognition between Melody and I meant trouble - it meant that we were going to sing "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men in unison. At an unsafe volume. 

It's amazing how much of that song we remembered, seeing that I was reciting what I learned solely from their late 90's music video. A nod of approval from the DJ enabled us, and we cranked up the volume (admittedly Melody was the only one singing; the term for the incoherent noise escaping my lips lied somewhere between squawking and propaganda-rally-belting). 

We raised our glasses and cigars towards him, then put them down and clapped loudly. For those keeping track, we remained the only individuals in the bar. Between the booze, the music and the strong fumes of mosquito repellent wafting up from our skin, we lost any and all sense of self-consciousness...and self control. This party was for us, as evidenced by the fact that we were the only ones in attendance. 

After a few latin-infused songs, our buddy returned to his sure-fire gringo hits, replaying both songs for his very receptive audience. Within twenty minutes, feeling more confident than ever, he took us for a third lap around musical gringo highway. With each rendition, our sing-alongs became more boisterous and less accurate, and the thirty feet of physical distance between us and him shrunk as if we sitting at the same table. 

The bottle now empty, its contents feeling warm and fuzzy inside our empty stomachs, we made the difficult yet necessary decision to pull ourselves away from the dance floor in search of food. Our host and DJ pleaded for us to come back later, but with an average bed time of 9:37pm on the trip, we knew it was unlikely. 

I made Melody hop behind the counter to take a picture with the people who had provided us with so much enjoyment, further commemorating the evening. After that, we wobbled arms-around-shoulders towards sustenance, which at that point, was as necessary as it's ever been. 

As we left behind the disco lights and began the walk down the long dark road, I turned back to view the bar from a distance. The memory that resides in my mind is as strong and vibrant as any positive thought I currently keep up there. This was an unexpected night in a new city, the only part of our trip that I hadn't planned while in the US. And it turned out to be one of the very best date nights we've ever had.

Enjoy some additional pictures from our one-day stay in Granada:

Waiting out one of the many rainstorms we encountered...

Frozen Macua's, the Nicaraguan National Drink

Posing in front of an intimidating door

Our hotel, the rich bastion of air conditioning

Busy and colorful streets, with volcanos overlooking the city

Sometimes when you see a horse standing alone at the corner of a road, you have to approach it...

Granada, lit up at night

Late-night Night Nica food: A heaping plate of beef, pork, chicken, plantains, fried cheese, salad, rice and beans.

Imposing view of the cathedral

This little guy sold us some gum, and stayed for a Coke 

Panoramic image taken from the central park

Nica Stories: Swimming in the Laguna de Apoyo

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

Soaking it up in front of our lagoon-side bar

Story number two in the honeymoon anthology. For part one, where we defied fire and brimstone to the top of an active volcano, click on this link: Masaya Volcano Adventure

La Laguna de Apoyo y El Mirador de Catarina

"There's no denying it, the fried chicken that the one-armed lady at the bus station served me was the best chicken I've eaten in my entire life!"

--Melody--

Having walked more than fourteen miles - over 32,000 steps according to my Fitbit - on the first day of a honeymoon that I was solely responsible for planning, I felt it fair to plan a day of rest and relaxation for my loving and understanding, brand new wife. Though as a couple we're not keen to sit on a beach all day and read John Grisham novels while our delicately pasty skin boils to a nice lobster red, we don't go out of our way to eschew comfort when it's within our realm.

My plan was to spend the day at the Laguna de Apoyo, a wonderfully peaceful and - more important to our cause - clean swimming hole that rests at the feet of the Masaya and Mombacho volcanos. Having previously conquered the Masaya volcano, bodies aching as a result, it was fitting to heal our wounds by drinking beer and swimming in its glorious waters, beneath the clouds whose birthing process we witnessed the previous afternoon. 

But before we could crack open the Toña's, we had to find our way there. Since public transport was our only option, and I was still readjusting my brain as to how much value a cordoba (Nica currency) offered, I decided to brave it to the bus terminal, which in any Central American town is the easiest option for getting anywhere. 

Spread out over a large dirt field, vendors line approximately eighty-five percent of the terminal's perimeter, with (mostly) ladies hawking a diverse array of basically anything you could ever need. Staples like fruits and vegetables were stacked high in large baskets on the ground and smaller baskets worn like hats, sold throughout the terminal wherever the vendors wandered, even going so far as to board the buses. 

Food and drinks were aplenty, with women and children offering bags of peanuts, chips, baked treats, and candy from the masses of packets that hung from their bodies, while others sold bags - yes bags! - of water, soda and juice from inside buckets or bags they carted around. In Latin America, the snacks come to you!

From there, the goods offered explode into an array of items unimaginable in any mobile and public setting: hammocks, belts, sunglasses, pirated CD's and movies, vitamins, cacao powder, flashlights, you get the idea. There's always the chance, though extremely remote, that a totally random item will fall into your lap at just the right time. Like the time that I answered a knock at my door in San Carlos the day I planned to go into town to buy a mattress...and some guy was there selling mattresses.  

It's tough work, and I've often wondered just how fruitful it can be, but this sales approach remains a constant in almost all towns throughout Nicaragua. While in San Carlos I befriended kids who sold tortillas and shined shoes for their family, as well as adults who operated in this sort of sales trade, and I cannot say that it's easy work. But they do it for their family, and typically the kids sell during the morning or afternoon when they're not in school, and at a young age they learn the lesson of just how important it is to help the family in any way possible. It makes my high-school job at Treescapes Lawn and Garden Center look like at Wall Street gig, though. 

We arrived in the dirty, dusty and distastefully smelly terminal with forty five minutes to spare before the bus headed out. In search of breakfast, we navigated the dense crowds and dogs picking through seemingly random piles of garbage. In Nicaragua, when you're traveling with me, breakfast often means fried chicken and tajadas (thinly sliced and deliciously fried plantains). We found a lady selling this out of a basket, and before Melody could object I ordered two meals. 

As she searched her fried chicken cemetery of a basket in search of our meal, I didn't realize until she was tying the plastic bag - all bus terminal meals are served in plastic bags, by the way - that her hand was not fully formed, because on one arm she had a nub that ended roughly at her mid-forearm. This did not have a particularly strong impact on me at the time, as I even went on to order a bag of triangularly shaped sweet bread from her; however, when Melody and I rehashed the situation back on the bus, I had to question just how good of a new husband I was. 

Because here is how this story plays out to a third party observer...

It was 9:30 am on the second day of our honeymoon, and I had already taken my new wife on a 14 mile hike, slept under a mosquito net with the bedroom fan (along with all power in the house) cut off, we walked two more miles in the morning, had sweated through our clothes by 8:30 am (and Melody is NOT a morning person), took a cab to a stinking, dirty bus station, bought super-fried chicken that was handled by a one-armed lady and sat down to dine in the romantic confines of a hot, child-filled 1970's era school bus to eat our breakfast. 

Melody is such a trooper, but I knew that we had to make it to the lagoon for this day - and this trip - to be a success. 

And sure enough, the bus took us all the way down to the bottom of the lagoon where we departed, trashed our chicken bones and took a breath of that sweet near-water air. From the moment we stepped off of the bus, I knew that this experience would make up for any previous discomfort. That line from Dumb and Dumber popped into my mind: "Harry, just when I thought you couldn't possibly be any dumber, you go and do something like this...and totally redeem yourself!" 

A quick scan told me that any bar within eyeshot would suffice, so we walked to the closest one, and after some discussion, took a large plastic table and some chairs down to lagoon level (like sea level, right?). Having breakfasted on fried chicken and now seated at a sandy bar, we felt it appropriate to order a pair of Toña's and toast the occasion. 

Two beers to represent the two volcanos surrounding the lagoon: Masaya and Mombacho

We saw a group of weirdly rowdy young Nica's to our far left and no one to our right - the lagoon was ours for the taking. A few sips in, I couldn't resist temptation anymore, so I de-shirted and ran into the clear waters, Melody following shortly after. 

Melody toasting me from our peaceful bungalow

The sand at the Laguna de Apoyo is dark and extremely fine, the result of centuries of volcanic activity. (I'm sure there's a much more scientific explanation for this, so ask Melody - she probably knows). Though the view from our lower-level outdoor beachside bar hangout was tremendous, the 360 degree panoramic from the water was Eric Clapton song-worthy. 

Pano from our spot

Lush rainforest wraps around long stretches of the lagoon's circumference, looking piercingly green and vibrant, as if a T-Rex attack was imminent (this is meant to invoke the beautiful scenery from Jurassic Park, not to scare you, the reader). Volcanos angle out of the water towards the clouds that fill the sky's canvas. The sheer amount of blue blues and green greens is mesmerizing, and made my brain question my eyes as to whether or not they were sending accurate information. 

We swam through the clear, perfectly temperate water - cool enough to be refreshing, but warm to the point where we never had goosebumps. Hours passed as we swam, and hydrated with beers, which contained what I can only imagine is a normal, small, amount of water. 

When it came time to eat, we continued the downward spiral into Nicaraguan deliciousness, finding Melody another new "top-three" item: Vigoron. The Nica way of serving the yucca root, vigoron consists of cooked yucca in some sort of vinegar sauce, served atop tajadas (remember those...thinly sliced, fried plantains) with a cabbage and tomato salad and chicharonnes (fried pork fat) as a garnish. This dish is particularly great for us; we both love it, but for different reasons. I'm perfectly fine with some yucca and the chicharonnes, while Melody craves the yucca, tajadas and salad. 

Finally able to relax on her honeymoon

Oh, and together we also consumed a massive bowl of beans. Because that's how you do it! And a plate of government-fried cheese. Because, oddly enough, that's also how you do it. 

For four or so hours, we had our "Sandals" moment. It felt amazing to sway weightlessly in the crater's belly with a better-than-Bob-Ross painting hung on every inch of nature's wall. 

It would have been extremely difficult to climb the volcano the day after such a peaceful and romantic excursion. As Melody knows, I'm not one for gifting flowers, so I have to make up for it in unique ways. But seriously, how many women can say their men have booked them a reservation at a bar at the base of a volcano, next to a crater, for a day of swimming in see-through water? And in the middle of the rainforest, to boot. Take that, Capital Grill at 8pm on Saturday night!

Eventually we packed up our belongings and headed back up (in a super-expensive cab) the lagoon, to finish the evening and watch the sun set at El Mirador de Catarina, which translates to The Catarina (a town) Lookout (a visual scenic point). 

Looking dramatically at the dramatic sunset

Catarina is situated close to my Peace Corps training town of Niquinohomo, which other than being the Nica town in which I miscommunicated almost everything due to my poor spanish skills circa 2004, is more notably recognized as the hometown of Augusto C. Sandino, who fought off U.S. Marines in the 1920's, and was posthumously chosen as the political symbol and namesake for the Sandinista movement. 

The Mirador is a slightly touristy lookout spot that attracts mostly curious Nicaraguans, but has also increased in popularity as a destination for Americans and Europeans alike. The view is stunning.. - basically it's the same scenery from the lagoon, but from a higher vantage point. 

Mirador Lookout, just before sunset. Probably not important, but a Canadian woman took this picture. 

Women sell artisinal crafts - bowls, hammocks, vases, necklaces, bracelets...trinkets - to tourists who sit on the concrete benches taking in the intimidatingly beautiful landscape. I could unsuccessfully to describe it, but you're best served to look below. Boom!

Lookout point from El Mirador de Catarina. Not taken by the Canadian woman. 

This place has it all: A quaintly fenced-off rainforest walking path around town; vibrant green rolling hills; the clear water of the crater's lagoon; volcanos in the distance; and a beautiful cloud bonnet tying everything together. 

We sat for half an hour before ordering coffee's at a restaurant. We spent some time debriefing what had been a long and interesting day of ups (lagoon-side beers) and downs (sweaty clothes at 9am), while packs of stray dogs searched for scraps around us. As the sun set, the sky changed from blue and yellow, to orange, then pink and finally a deep, dark purple before fading to black. I was conflicted, torn between simply taking in this natural beauty, and wanting nothing more than to capture it with my camera, to share later on. So I tried to do both.  

This happened!

Melody eventually ordered Jalapeño Steak - anything with Jalapeño sauce was now our new favorite meal, just three days in - and I went with pork ribs. We incited a stray-dog riot by surreptitiously chucking our bones and scraps below us. This wouldn't have been an important detail, but after the meal, when the sky and our surroundings were now pitch-black and we were standing on one of the stone benches getting all huggy, this same skin-and-bones group of dogs shot out of nowhere, barking violently, chasing each other. Though it probably didn't happen, I had the distinct impression that one brushed against my leg. 

The final word of Romantic Sunset chapter was written. 

This day proved to be a great recuperation from the effort expended on the Masaya volcano. Though still hurting, sore and a bit tight, we were better off for it. With the sun setting at approximately 5:30, we were at home and ready for sleep much sooner than one should expect while on vacation. But when you start the day with fried chicken for breakfast, you shouldn't really set any expectations for how it will end. 

Below are some of our faves from this great day:

Great shot of my trusty Atlanta Braves vacation hat

This is the Nica version of "shenanigans"

This proves there's no Nica crevasse too remote for selling treats out of a basket on your head

Goofing off...

Melody fighting boredom

More goofing off

You can already see in this picture just how sun-burnt my neck is. The following day, and straight through to the end of the two week trip, my neck and nose remained painfully, comically burnt. Melody looks cute in this pic though...

A tiny, ponytailed dot among the rippled water

I thought setting up this coffee shot would be cool...but in hindsight it is not. But I made Melody pose, so best to share it...

This shot almost broke my camera lens with it's complex assortment of vibrant colors

The "stitching" on this was not great, but holy crap, is it beautiful!